33. Viktor Malenkov
Viktor Malenkov
Location: Underground Detention Site — Central Control
Time: Unknown
Fear is most effective when it is organized.
That is the mistake amateurs make—they believe pain alone is enough. It isn’t. Pain without structure breeds resistance.
Pain with purpose breeds obedience.
I stand at the central control console, hands resting lightly on the steel rail as feeds from every wing of the facility flicker across the screens. Rows of cells. Motionless figures. Shackled silhouettes.
Men who once mattered.
“Begin Phase Three,” I say calmly.
The technician hesitates.
I do not look at him.
“Now.”
The hesitation disappears.
Lights across the facility cut out in staggered intervals—not all at once. That would be merciful. Instead, darkness rolls through the dungeon in waves, disorienting, unpredictable.
In some cells, the lights stay on.
In others, they never come back.
Temperature controls shift next.
Cold floods the lower tiers—sharp, invasive, seeping into bone. The upper levels heat rapidly, air thickening until breath becomes labored.
Opposites.
Chaos.
The screens show bodies reacting—shivering, gasping, curling inward, pressing foreheads to stone like prayer might help.
It will not.
“Food rotation?” I ask.
“Suspended,” the technician answers. “All wings.”
“Water?”
“Every forty-eight hours.”
I nod once.
Isolation is not enough anymore.
They tasted hope.
That cannot be allowed.
“Activate auditory exposure,” I continue.
A guard glances up sharply. “Sir… are you certain?”
I turn then.
Slowly.
He pales.
The sound system hums to life.
At first, it is nothing but white noise—static crawling through the walls, impossible to pinpoint. Then it changes.
Breathing.
Low. Ragged.
Then a scream.
Short.
Cut off abruptly.
The screens capture the reaction instantly.
Men stiffen. Heads lift. Eyes widen in the dark.
They don’t know whose scream it is.
That’s the point.
“Cycle it,” I say. “Different wings. Different times. No pattern.”
The technician swallows hard but obeys.
I watch as one man drops to his knees. Another presses his forehead against the bars, shaking.
Still not broken.
Interesting.
“Bring me one,” I say.
“Which one, sir?”
I consider the screens.
Then select one at random.
“Cell E-17.”
The man is dragged into the punishment chamber within minutes.
He’s younger than the others. Stronger. Still holding too much of himself.
He looks up when he sees me.
“Please,” he says immediately. “I didn’t hear anything. I swear.”
I crouch to his level.
“I know,” I say gently.
His confusion is delicious.
“This is not punishment,” I continue. “This is instruction.”
I stand and gesture.
They chain him upright.
No electricity this time.
No blood.
Just suspension.
Hours will pass like this.
Days, if necessary.
The body will fail first.
The mind will follow.
“Return him when he stops asking questions,” I instruct.
“Yes, sir.”
As they drag him away, I return to the console.
Satisfied.
Then the technician speaks again—voice tight.
“Sir… we’ve lost signal on the Ghostline frequency entirely.”
I pause.
Slowly straighten.
Lost signal is not a victory.
It is movement.
I lean closer to the screen displaying Ronan Pierce’s former command—each man alone, silent, enduring.
“Escalate again,” I say quietly.
The technician’s hands shake as he complies.
Because if Ronan Pierce is alive…
He will not wait forever.
And when he comes—
I intend for him to find
not heroes…
but remnants.